Remorse
by Aldenon
Summary: Heartbreak and loneliness affect all involved when Kinsley Hawke begins to have doubts about her relationship with Anders and finds comfort with Fenris. Set in Act 3, Rated M for strong sexual content and adult language.
1. Ardor

Kinsley Hawke tossed and turned with all the uncomfortable space she had in her comfortable bed. In one direction, she stared at an oddly shaped bright spot on the carpet made from the sliver of moonlight shining through the window; in another, she traced the golden pattern of swirling lines across the doors of her large closet set in the corner. Or really, their closet. She almost laughed at the thought of calling anything _theirs_ anymore and stared up at the canopy for a little while, wondering where he was yet again.

The past several months had her witnessing a slow decline in their relationship, and left her questioning many things. _I'm seeing fewer patients these days, no I will not allow you to become involved in the underground_, and _this manifesto isn't going to write itself_, and _yes, I lied, there is no potion_ with no explanation about any of it either.

His fluctuating moods she could handle, they were nothing new, but now he has withdrawn in every way possible and is barely around for her to even begin to get to the root of _anything_. Sometimes gone for days at a time with nothing more than a nod upon his return before shutting himself in the library or taking a bath and heading out again, leaving her with a confused and angry heart. Confrontations were painful and jobs were getting downright awkward.

She used to sit up and wait for him, and he has succeeded in making a night owl out of her because of it. Sometimes sleep comes easy, when she's too physically exhausted to let her mind roam and ramble and wonder on in through the wee hours when she is pretty sure she could hear a pin drop all the way over in Ferelden. She did laugh the first time she thought of that and there was no one around to share in the joke, which led her mind to other places, Lothering and memories that she would rather not dig up and rehash, especially alone.

That's how it started, some of her friends kept odd hours too and she would rather share the memories with them, if they were to keep haunting her. Or better yet, idle conversation about nothing and everything, Varric was exceptionally good at that. Unfortunately he didn't always stay up late, having to rise early for meetings with the Merchant's Guild.

And Isabela, well, more often than not that is who she spent the long hours until dawn with, drinking and laughing and taking her mind off of more serious matters. Sometimes in the Hanged Man, sometimes here, but she was also a bit of a flake. Passing out or spending the night with whoever was her flavor of the week. Kinsley didn't mind, at least someone was having fun.

Sebastian was simply out of the question, and Aveline, she was married now and the Blight itself wouldn't prevent her from rising early for her duty as Guard-Captain. Merrill, sweet Merrill she loved her and visited her as well but there was only so much explaining she could do before it started to grate on her nerves.

That left Fenris, exactly who she was getting dressed to go see right now, she tied her shoulder-length dark hair back and then decided to leave it down. He was always up it seemed and never turned her away. She enjoyed their conversations, swapping stories until dawn and making good use of the Aggregio. She never discussed more personal matters with him though; she saved her whining and concern about Anders for Isabela or Varric.

That's not to say that they didn't discuss other personal things. Between her memories and the slow regaining of his, they shared quite a lot. He has revealed some truly heartbreaking things, especially since they killed Danarius and Varania left Kirkwall without so much as a sneer in his direction. That was nearly a month ago, and she has watched him improve considerably with his mood and temperament, no longer dogged by his old master's shadow.

She took the steps through Hightown up to his mansion and fought back gnawing flickers of excitement. It was becoming something that she struggled with and she didn't dare tell anyone how much she enjoyed his company or what they talked about. Not wanting anyone to get the wrong idea about her creeping up to his place at all hours of the night, she made it a point to not visit him as often as the others.

But she couldn't fully explain to herself why she felt excited, or for that matter, why she felt the need to hide it. And if she was going to go that far, why she felt the need to hide from him how lonely she truly was.

She didn't knock, he didn't lock his doors and was now used to her stopping by unannounced so late, although tonight may be bordering on the latest she has ever came by. She liked to think that he kept them unlocked for her but she knew better and those were dangerous thoughts anyway. She walks through the dark and shadowy mansion quietly tonight, a ghost floating over the marble with familiarity up to his bedroom, or really the only room he occupied.

"Hawke." He greets her before she even reaches the door, and keeps his tone somewhat light, but she hears a melancholy dip within her one syllabled name that strums a chord deep inside herself.

He is leaning forward in a lavishly decorated chair pulled close to the fireplace, no doubt found in another room and belonging to a set, a bottle in his hand, and the warm glow highlighting his features.

He remains still and doesn't look away from the fire when she leans against the frame in the doorway. "How do you always know when it's me?"

The answer he gives suffices but it sounds like a lie, "It's the robe."

She knows this means he was ever sensitive to the sound in Tevinter, the approach of a magister. But she decides to not let their night begin with such a dark topic and passes into the room. "I was exceedingly stealthy, I might have to toss my staff and get Isabela to train me."

He laughs and she smiles because it's a wonderful sound, still rare enough to appreciate when it happens.

"I would almost pay to see that."

"I might be inclined to do it for free, just for your amusement." She realizes the potential innuendo but that is honestly her foot-in-mouth way and he pays it no mind.

He hands her the bottle when she gets near enough and she takes a long swig, handing it back to him as she plops down onto the arm of the chair. "Copper for your thoughts?"

"Please, let me offer you a proper seat." He stands and gestures to the soft velvety cushion of his newfound furniture but she stands too and crosses over to her usual seat at the table.

He joins her in his, taking another drink as he settles back, then eyes her curiously. "It was a long time ago. Do you remember when I asked you what one does when they stop running?"

She twists her lips and looks up, pretending to search her memory. "I dimly recall saying that you settle down." She smiles and he nods, without even a quirk to his lips there is somehow a subtlety to his movements that lets others know he acknowledges a joke. _It's one of the things she_-

"Correct. However then I was not free to decide one way or another."

"But you are now."

"Indeed. Thanks to you."

He seems troubled by something, and she renounces the idea it is her. Regardless of the way he looked at her when he said _you_, causing a flush she could not hide to creep across her pale complexion.

He sighs and looks away, musing about what, she could not tell.

At length he speaks again quietly, "I was thinking that I may travel, for a time."

It is the last thing she was expecting to hear and it comes as such a shock that she feels like she just got pommeled by an ogre.

"What?" she asks, and can't hide the shrillness of her voice. "When?"

He leans forward and props an elbow onto the table, setting the bottle down and opting to stare at how much wine is left…half full or half empty?

"Soon."

She coughs and regains some control over her tone but her exasperation is still evident. "Where will you go?"

"I'm not sure."

He continues to stare at the bottle for a long moment, and she is painfully aware how obvious her speechlessness is, he glances to her and then slides an empty glass over within her reach.

He is never one to stay still for long and rises from his seat, stepping over in front of her to pour half of what's left into the glass and pointedly watching it flow from the bottle.

"I am equally not sure if there is a future to be had here."

"But you have friends here."

She reaches out to take the glass with her fingertips around the rim and nearly tips it over; his reflexes catch her hand in his over the glass.

"I suppose…"

"I don't really know what to say…"

"I...don't either."

Her hand twitches under his and he pulls his own away, the motion isn't a jerk, some overt display of a guilty conscience, instead it is reluctant, lingering, and perhaps that is worse.

She picks up the glass because that was her original intent and it now seems a mandatory task. An object to be placed between them, a welcome distraction, a mundane activity made even more so in comparison with the contact of skin.

The wine betrays her, however steady she manages to keep her hand while bringing the glass to her mouth; the red ocean has a tremor, hinting at things swimming below the surface.

He is about to turn away from her and create distance by stalking over to the fireplace and saying nothing, but he owes her better than that, so he clears his throat, "Beyond expressing my gratitude that I have a choice to do as I please now. To live as any free man would."

She sets her drink aside and stands and she doesn't want to admit why she feels restless.

"I want you to be happy Fenris. If not here then…" _If not with me then_…

"Elsewhere?" _Someone else?_

She dips her head with a nod. A simple thing to do when all else seems overly complicated.

He turns his back on her. "Sometimes I wonder if it were truly possible."

"What?" She knows what, and she knows why.

He turns to face her again with a humorless smirk. "To be happy."

She studies his eyes falsely, as if to seek a truth that she can see as plain as day.

He drops his gaze. "Such a concept…seems strange."

"It doesn't have to be."

His eyes flick to hers in a very un-Fenris like way, he is not doing so well at ignoring her ambiguity tonight, and she isn't any better with her choice of words.

It wasn't said in a seductive manner, but the underlying tension does that for her. She is not entirely at a loss for words, she should say something else, to politely recant as he does, to move on and brush it off. But she lets it hang in the air around them.

And she realizes, as does he, that there would be no silence right now if the wish for it to be a bold intentional statement wasn't a hidden reality. Without it, there could not be a double meaning.

A crackle from the hearth mocks the weak will of both.

The thought is there, blatant and growing from a seed that threatens to blossom wild.

Her eyes flicker to his lips, almost imperceptibly, but he notices. She does the worst thing that she could possibly do, she licks her lips, it is involuntarily done but his eyes follow suit just as hers did and she notices. She watches him shift his shoulders and when his eyes meet hers again, it is unmistakably read by both of them that if one were to kiss the other, it wouldn't be met with refusal.

The tension is palpable, dancing on a knife's edge between their bodies. Perhaps it was the slight twitch of his lips, perhaps some inflection on her own face, she cannot know, she cannot think when they careen together, neither knows with certainty who flinched first, who reached first, for their movements were followed too closely by the other.

All she knows is his lips are scorching against hers when she throws her arms around his neck and his hands are fire on her waist, lifting her up and seating her onto the edge of the table. He moans and her robes are pushed up around her hips, she makes small, needy noises into his mouth.

His gauntlets clang to the floor with a satisfying ring, bouncing off the walls and echoing back into the recesses of her mind. It is the sound of a bell singing out a warning, it is the pounding of a nail into a coffin, it is the click of a knob turning on a door, a door that she knows once opened, once crossing the threshold, she can't ever turn back.

She knows this, but her thoughts are as dull now as they were sharp in the realization of it all a moment ago. She lets them flow away, lets them sink like a stone heavy with the weight of want.

It is easy, too easy. To let her thoughts be buried under the warm heaviness of his hands, all over her, smooth in places and rough in others, the tell-tale sign of a warrior skillfully grasping the leather pommel of his sword. Her warrior, she thinks, ever guarding her in battle. She catches a gleam in his eyes through the slits of her own as she turns her head in accordance with his, to let his lips discover and explore the delicate curve of her neck.

It tells her all she needs to know, that yes, he is hers. Always has been, circling her body like a shield, guarding her like he guards his hope that she will one day say the word. That she will one day realize that it's him that she needs, it's his love that burns like the fire crackling in the hearth behind him. There is so much in a look, a longing that says unlike the fire, unlike anyone else, his love will never burn out.

She lets the last echo of regret pinching on her nerves drift away with the smoke rising from the embers of a dying love.

His strong fingers are gripping her hip, the other hand claiming the low curve of her waist. A decision is made both consciously and unconsciously, she is no longer content to just let this happen. She feels the ache of it somewhere deep, curling in the pit of her gut and stemming outwards through her limbs until her hand is in his hair and she is pulling him closer.

Closer, he needs to be closer, she needs to feel him; she wants him more than she has ever wanted anything. She kisses him with renewed fervor, pouring all that she feels from her open mouth into his and she knows, she admits to herself, even as she hears the groan in his throat accepting her want, that it's always been there, that she has always-wanted him.

There is no turning back; she is in the eye of a storm, aloft in the spiral of desire. It's his storm, a thing that tilts her world on its axis when he presses and grinds the hard length of him against her.

"Hawke," he groans into her ear, and his deep gravelly tone is a surprise, too long has she lain with another.

It doesn't jolt her out of the reverie; instead it washes like a tide through her bones, an undercurrent of heat that stirs beneath the crashing waves of lust.

She moans and grits her teeth as she wraps her mind around the thrill of saying it out loud, she caves, oh how she caves with a shaky whisper into his ear, "Fenris."

His name spoken feather-light packs a devastating punch with the force of years unrequited. He hears it, dripping with undeniable truth. She isn't clinging to him because she has given up on another, she is giving in-to him.

The roar of blood pumping in her ears is deafening, her limbs feel almost hollow, light and tingling to the point where she is not sure if she is touching him at all.

She drowns in him, freely, and it feels indescribably good to let go, to lose herself in him. He is familiar and yet wholly strange, he is muscle and metal and-

A dark emerald sea off the coast of Rivain, a place she has never been, only described to her by a certain pirate with no appreciation for their true depth. She stares into them now, she cannot, will not look away. Her lips tremble as his fingertips slowly ghost over her skin, down from her neck to her heaving bosom and pausing, hovering, over her heart. She swallows, _yes it is racing, yes I need this, yes I want you_.

He trails down lower, over her abdomen, down her inner thigh to the knee and back up, her whole body quivers with anticipation under his touch. She is breathing as if under the strain of great labor and squeezes her eyes shut momentarily when he finally, gently, barely, grazes over the damp spot of her smalls. She shudders with a soft whine and forces her eyes back open, drinking in the soft green sea once again.

She is about to say please, about to, dare she, beg. But her eyes remit an unspoken plea that he reads all too well. She gasps under his gaze when he adds a hint of pressure, the silk of her garment becomes a new glove to cover the tips of his fingers, tucking the fabric behind her nub as he strokes it upward and over and onto in lazy circles. One corner of his lips curls with satisfaction when she leans into his hand and tugs at the waistband of his leggings, he helps her shrug them down and she wraps her legs loosely around him.

The fever of lust holds them both prisoners, and the only freedom is skin against skin. She frantically undoes the buckles of his jerkin and he tosses it overhead. Her eyes trace the lines of lyrium swirling in a beautiful pattern over his torso before his skin is hot beneath her palms on his chest, sliding up over his collarbone to the rock hard hunches of muscle behind it.

The only control amid the urgency is that he takes care to cup her face when his lips crash against hers again. His fingers pluck at the edge of her smalls and drag them to the side. She rolls her hips towards him, feeling the air against her sex before the tip of him presses against her entrance.

She leans forward and again it is too easy, all too easy for him to slide in, take what is his. He sucks in a breath as he eases in to the hilt and she would swear that she was dying if she didn't feel so alive. A pitiful moan escapes her and she clenches around his length when he begins to rock back and forth.

She wistfully regrets not having removed all of her clothing, but that is the sum of her regret in this moment, and soon the remainder of the top half of her robe does not matter, nothing does.

His thrusts are slow but powerful, hips snapping flush against hers every time he sheaths into her molten core.

She wraps her arms around him and bucks her hips each time he drives deep. His breath is hot against her lips, his bangs of white hair overshadowing his eyes that bore into hers when he asks, "Does your abomination make you feel like this?"

So many times has she been angry when he has used that word before. As a mage herself, she should be angry now, but she cannot bring herself to be. Let him call Anders what he will.

_No_. She scarcely shakes her head and his answer is her lips slowly brushing back and forth over his.

In her eyes he sees the truth, in her own mind the truth is bittersweet, deep down she knows that she will always be second place to his cause. And though she may fight beside him, believe in what he is striving for, a part of her resents him for it. She knows it is selfish, she loathes herself for it.

Somehow, at the center of all that is wrong about what Fenris is giving her right now, it feels right. Completing her in a way she did not think possible.

He slows to a single long slide into her and she arches. "I wonder how often he leaves you lonely," he says, and there isn't a hint of smugness in his voice or eyes, instead he lets the words roll off of his tongue a little sadly.

It must have been too clear, despite the endeavor of hiding her desperation to feel wanted. She does not answer, it wasn't really a question and if it was, what answer can she give? She doesn't want to think about cold sheets and empty sides of the bed, hours spent awake in the night aching for a touch that never comes.

He kisses her, slow and deep and tender and the measure of promise behind it nearly breaks her heart. He would hold her until she fell asleep, she would not wake a single morning without him, oh how she would be his everything.

She clutches him harder, heels digging into the backs of his thighs, a hand mussing his hair, the other caressing his jaw in a gesture to show him-that she's sorry, that she's a fool, that she cannot now bear the thought of him as he has been, here, alone in this mansion without her-she briefly pretends it isn't so. That all these long years she hasn't left him to be even lonelier than her.

She did feel a flush of anger now, Anders had his damned manifesto, furtive guilty glances, lies in the face of her trust, a trust she now wasn't sure he ever bore for her as much as she did him. Still, she is angrier with herself, for not seeing what has always been before her eyes when it came to both of them.

"Does he kiss you like that?"

"No," she says, somehow finding her voice, but her response is a whine laden with both sorrow and pleasure.

She kisses him back, forcefully, with added effort into rolling her hips along each glide of him into her, bucking them at the precise moment every time his pelvic bone snaps against her clit.

The intensity she feels is a slow burn, pushing her towards an inevitable peak she doesn't ever want to come down from. The pressure mounting within her only heightens her senses, the taste of him is raw passion and pavali, his scent sharp and crisp like a blade and yet musky with dregs of oil and leather. She breathes it in and doesn't know how she's lived without it.

He breaks the kiss, his forehead pressed to hers, mouth never straying far, eyes alight with something devious despite the shadows that cover them. "Is his cock as big as mine?"

Surely he knows, she's soaked and he fills her tight as a drum, it isn't painful, it's perfect, she nearly growls her reply, "No."

Her legs clamp down around him and he pulls her tighter into his embrace. "Has he ever fucked you this good?"

"No," she sobs out, panting as her climax hits strong and brutal and she is being held so tightly that she cannot thrash around.

"Do you come this hard with him?"

She shakes in his arms, bites her lip with strangled noises and strains to keep her eyes open, so that she can spend every second of it staring into his, without denial.

He falls over the edge with her and kisses her with a throaty moan rather than cry out his release. The last few bucks into her come all too soon, and their kiss dies away in favor of gasps. Heaving and utterly undone, she buries her face into the crook of his neck even as he stays buried within her, neither eager to let the moment pass.

She blocks out consequence until he pulls back from her, then it settles like a cloud all around her. Guilt and panic with no reprieve, one way or another, this would all end badly.

What does she do now? Stay here? Lie in his bed, in his arms, murmuring words of commitment that she has no right to give? Not yet, not without…They hate each other, they will kill one another and it will be all her fault.

Her slide down from the table is much more than a physical action; it is a ride down a steep slope from some illusion of moral high-ground that she used to have. When her feet hit the floor, she might as well be upside-down, reeling from the fact that what she and Fenris just did was also much more than a physical action and all that dragging the truth of it into light would mean.

She stood wavering between racing thoughts and no thoughts at all. "I need to go…"

She isn't looking at him, scanning the floor seems much easier_-one of his gauntlets and what have I done?-_and she isn't even sure if she has said anything at all.

She can feel him staring-_emerald_-at her and now the deafening silence is her enemy. She takes quick strides to the door and finds it better, at least her heart is starting to pound again.

A scorchmark-_sweetheart and amber_-near the doorway from when they first stormed the mansion.

"Hawke…"

It is a reflex, someone says your name and you look at them.

She can't deal with the mixture of emotion she finds there, not on top of hers as well.

His face becomes a blur with the tears pooling in her violet eyes and threatening to spill over.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, and then she is gone.


	2. Betrayals

There were wildflowers that grew along the banks of a river running through the jungle of Seheron. Violet, the most beautiful color he had ever seen, soft and yet strong enough to thrive in harsh conditions. When he first saw them, they represented the Fog Warriors themselves for their kindness to one such as he, and their resilience as a people to remain rooted in tradition.

When his eyes first met hers, he was reminded not of his ill deed which haunted him but the freedom and beauty he had known there. Ever since the first night when he had asked her what manner of mage was she-and she replied find out-he found out, and he found himself comparing her often to the flower.

It is not often over the years that he has seen her cry, the tears pooling in her eyes made him think of morning dew collecting on their petals. He once thought to gather a few as a token of his appreciation, a gift for the leader of the tribe, but his hand was stayed by another and he was told the vines were poisonous. Beautiful and deadly. A thing not to be touched. Kinsley Hawke, indeed. Except now he had reached and his hand had not been stayed, he had touched.

The seed she held would not seem to grow for so long, it blossomed wild and now he watched it wither.

He stopped himself from following her by bracing his hands on either side of the doorway and his eyes follow her until she disappears beyond the main door. It is then that he lets his own tears fall and turns abruptly to stalk over and snatch up the bottle of wine, draining the last of its contents. It did nothing to wash away the sweet taste of her lips still fresh on his. With a bellow of frustration he hurls it at the far wall, to shatter like his heart.

The irony does not escape him that now that he is free he would choose to be at another mage's side. It is only a cold fact, an observation that someone would make of the pair, a mage and an ex-slave to one. It was not an easy process, with time she had shown him kindness from a mage and the resilience of her good character stripped away generalities until he saw the individual. He could no longer blindly hate anyone.

Then, he began to reevaluate everyone he knew.

He had always been cautious and wary of those around him, but to further scrutinize Anders beyond _mage_ had left him with an unsettling feeling in his gut. He saw straight through him, he was manipulative, maybe even dangerously so. Hawke saw the best in everyone and sought to encourage it, but he wondered whether she had succeeded with Anders or if he had her wrapped around his finger. Her reluctance to leave him over the years proved nothing either way, and though he had warned her not to place much trust in the man, beyond that it was not for him to interfere.

The thought of her being used burned him up.

He had heard it, she wanted him. She could be with him, she should be with him.

_Fenris._

He rages, throws her glass against the wall, picks up her chair and flings it across the room. It did nothing to drown out her whisper in his mind, and no matter what passed through his hands, he knew they would continue to feel empty until he touched her skin again.

He balls his hands into tight fists, this emptiness, this ache in his chest would not do. The last of the Aggregio was gone, he found another bottle of wine of lesser quality but the result would be the same. He paces and drinks until he is light-headed enough to resume his seat by the fire.

Despite the fire, despite the warmth of passion and drink pumping through his veins, the chill of loneliness gathers around him once again. Only now it is worse, to have been that close to her and still not have her, to know she is as lonely as himself, to have had a glimpse of something more in her eyes made it unbearable.

But he would not try to manipulate her and he would not force her to stay.

* * *

She has just enough presence of mind in her actions to close the door to his mansion behind her. The air is thick and warm with the threat of dawn looming around the edges of the sky and painting the stone of Hightown with a lighter shade of grey.

She wishes it were cold to breathe in, she wishes her steps would still cast shadows, she wishes that simply closing the door wasn't a metaphor for her weakness of opening it.

A world of change sat behind that door, she glances back to it from at the top of the steps that would lead her down-_down from the table_-and her heart rends itself into, imagining him sitting there, alone, still bearing the look on his face when she had chosen to run away.

Tears burst forth like rain and to say that she felt sick would be an understatement with so many conflicting emotions warring for control as she blindly made her descent.

Everything has changed and yet nothing has…

Anders predictably isn't home when she gets back to the mansion and she breathes out a sigh of relief, counting it as a blessing from Andraste herself right now, even if she has never been religious. She had only counted herself lucky that the streets had been empty and people hadn't begun to stir about with their daily routines.

"Don't look at me like that." Otto cocks his head even further at her and she briefly ponders the extent of his intelligence, surely he did not know…

His scent, she has Fenris all over her and her heart nearly leaps out of her chest. It dawns on her what someone more intelligent than a Mabari would instantly recognize by only the sight of her. She is a mess of passion and dried tears.

She passes by the library.

"There you are."

He _is_ home.

She freezes just out of sight at the bottom of the steps, and this time she thanked the Maker that she hadn't screamed. She can't let him see her, she needs to say something, had he seen her?

No, if she responds that will lead to conversation and eyes and…

She dashes up the steps, careful enough in her stealth to not make it sound like blind panicky running away.

_It's the robe_.

Fenris sitting in front of the fire flits through her mind, along with the most innocent of words that were spoken, because they were said during the moment when she knew that walking any further into his room would be treading on dangerous ground, and she had decided to flirt with temptation anyway.

She jerks the robe off of her inside the safety of the washroom and wraps her smalls and breastband up in it, tossing the ball into a corner before quickly summoning ice and melting it for a bath.

She settles in and takes a deep breath before submerging herself overhead, cursing her luck, cursing herself until she runs out of air and has to retreat.

It is not long before there is a rap at the door. "Love?"

She cringes at the word, and wants to submerge herself again at the sound of his voice, sink and drown like the weight of a guilty stone, like the whore that she is, no better than a desire demon, in fact much, much worse. He probably won't ask her where she has been. He probably assumes she is mad at him. It's too early though, too soon to face him, without having a chance to think…about everything, alone.

Stay calm and show nothing, they will kill each other; she inwardly chants the mantra as she answers him, "Yes?"

A terrible liar, a terrible everything, she focuses on scrubbing her skin rather than look at him when he opens the door and is glad that the heat of the water and the sponge she is using provides an excuse for her flushed reddened skin.

"I," he says proudly, "have finished writing the manifesto."

Of course it isn't-Where have you been?-he has many focuses and not a single one of them is her. She is relieved, saddened, angry and happy all in one.

Except she has to pick one emotion to saturate her tone and she is actually happy that he has completed this work, so she masks the complexity with simplistically false enthusiasm when she says, "That's wonderful."

"I would love for you to read the final draft."

"Alright," she croaks out while digging her fingers furiously into her scalp, trying to wash away the filth of her guilt, and hoping it looks like she is simply lathering her hair.

"Sweetheart…"

She pauses at her nickname being used, it mirrors all the times in her memory of him saying it affectionately and she feels a crushing sense of remorse. She closes her eyes and repeatedly pours water from a small bowl over her head to rinse and hide her tears. It drowns out the sound of him moving closer to sit on a stool by the tub and when she opens her eyes she meets his.

All the water in the world would not hide the sadness that he has to undoubtedly see.

He clears his throat and eagerly chirps, "I made a few changes."

She stares blankly, barely hearing a word he had said over her own thoughts, expecting him to note that something was wrong and not sure if he had, she responds with a start, "Huh?"

"Are you ill?" His brow furrows with concern as he leans and presses the back of his hand to her forehead.

It isn't elfroot that she smells wafting from him but something she is not familiar with, her confusion gives way to the familiarity of his touch instead. Remorse suddenly seems a pretty word compared to how it makes her feel.

"I'm fine," she says coldly, distantly, the dissonance between the meaning of the words and the turmoil inside tasting bitter and wrong in her mouth.

He stands and she feels a little less like a trapped animal.

"Well, I was saying that I made a few changes. I'll have it ready for you."

The relief of him leaving the room causes her to let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She finishes bathing and sits until the water goes cold trying to pull herself together. She needed to tell him something, maybe to take a break so she can sort out this mess before it snowballed any further and crushed everyone in its path.

He is lying on his side of the bed, propped back onto the pillows and skimming over the manifesto when she enters the bedroom. He's wearing nothing but his smalls-Was he intending on staying for a while?- and she can't remember the last time he was even in their bedroom other than for a change of clothes.

He looks up from the pages and pats the bed for her to come and sit down.

She does, and he hands her a mug. "Coffee bean, the way you like it."

Her hands fold around his to take it and she stares at her reflection in the mug. She looks up at him and eyes him suspiciously. Why was he being so attentive? The black stagnant pool has a ripple as she brings it to her mouth. It burns her throat, deserved, she thinks.

She sets the mug aside on the nightstand and he smiles at her when she turns back around, his tired eyes somehow exuberant with warmth, and all she wants to do is cry.

He plops the manifesto onto her lap and scoots to massage her shoulders, he kisses her neck and mumbles into her skin, "I've missed you."

Her heart rends itself further apart and she closes her eyes, if she tried to speak she would choke on her guilt. Was this why? Had he been so consumed with writing this damned thing that he couldn't help it? Was he now ready to focus on her and their relationship? Now it was too late, now another had claimed a piece of her broken heart.

She nearly blurts out that he's lost her when his hands smooth a practiced path down her arms, when he takes the pages of his work and tosses it onto the floor, when he pulls the edges of her towel free from the knot, but her guilt keeps her pinned when he rolls onto her.

He kisses her slow and deep and tender, but there is no promise behind it.

_Does he kiss you like that?_

She whines with a sorrowful sound that catches in her throat and then her tears cannot be held back. He gently wipes her cheeks with his thumbs and she knows he thinks it means she has missed him too. She used to miss him, until she couldn't anymore.

Unable to deny a trace of their dead love still lingering within her, she can't stop him when he enters her. His touch is a hollow empty thing leaving a trail of cold in its wake, and it is precisely why she needs to feel this, to know, beyond all shadowy doubts that the fire burned out long ago; just as there is no fire in his eyes when she forces herself to look into them, only now she realizes that it's never really been there, not for her, not in the way she wanted, needed it to be.

There is a niggling thought buried in the back of her mind, clawing its way to surface and screaming this is wrong, it is, everything feels wrong.

She closes her eyes and she sees Fenris, feels Fenris, she tries to push him from her mind and her body betrays her, she bites her lip when she comes, and then it is over.

He sighs and rolls to his side of the bed and everything is so painfully wrong in a stark moment of clarity. She admits to herself that she is unhappy, and has been for a while. She feels wretched and miserable and sick. He doesn't deserve such dishonesty, even after all of his.

She takes a deep breath, willing her nerves not to unravel and fray into visible shaking. "We need to talk."

He's already off of the bed with his back to her. "Can it wait? I'd like to take a bath."

It will give her time to map out what she wants to say, and with the wheels already turning sharp distorted curves in her thoughts she sighs as well and whispers, "Okay."

She cries while he is gone-that she loves him, that part of her always will, that she isn't in love with him anymore, that she tried so hard to stay in love with him, that she cannot do this anymore.

She dresses and avoids the emerald robe hanging in front of all the others, choosing gray with a humorless purse to her lips of how gray her world has become, stuck in the in-between.

When he returns he doesn't give her time to speak, opening the door with words already pouring out in a rush, "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something as well."

Her tears dried, her appearance holding a modicum of composure, she sits on the edge of the bed sipping the coffee and waits, allowing him to say what he wants to say first.

He smiles brightly but his eyes are pensive. "I was hoping you would go with me."

"Where?"

"More than that…" he says, and looks down and away for a moment before continuing a bit more softly, "I was hoping you would present the manifesto to the Grand Cleric."

"Anders…" she says, using his name as a warning, having already told him no when he asked her to distract the Grand Cleric before.

He raises his hands placatingly. "It's not like that. I just think we should try to have her read it."

Perhaps it wasn't such a bad idea, figuring she owes him this at least, she decides their conversation can wait.

"All right, let me know when you're ready." She goes downstairs and checks her correspondences and wonders if there really is a Maker and if so- Would he strike her down once she crosses the threshold of his house?

They leave for the Chantry and she presents the manifesto, argues the plight of mages until it becomes heated and she didn't realize that for a time Anders was not at her side.

Only when he retrieves her does she realize she's been fooled. Her emotions dulled her, blinded her, and he took full advantage. His affectionate sweetheart-the attention-the mug of coffee-making love-it had all been to get her to do what he wanted. He probably felt proud of himself, except he didn't know that it had worked for reasons other than what he thought.

She is livid when they step outside, she can't even look at him, too flabbergasted and angry to speak.

He thinks his plan went off without a hitch and kisses her on the cheek. "I should get to the clinic."

"Oh, Anders…" She manages to shake her head with disgust and hurt before storming off in the direction of home but when she gets to the door she can't go inside as she cannot bear the thought of being around _their_ things, afraid of breaking every last damn piece of furniture in the house.

So she walks aimlessly to burn off her anger, through Hightown into Lowtown, up the path that will take her to the Wounded Coast and back before actually travelling it alone.

A little over an hour had passed since they had left the Chantry doors when she finds herself walking into the Hanged Man. She goes straight to Varric's room, whether to vent or confide or seek a distraction she wasn't sure, after trying to think things through and failing due to her anger clouding all other thoughts.

And there he is, leaning in a relaxed pose against the mantelpiece and chatting away with Varric.

He goes abruptly quiet and straightens as she walks up, then mutters, "Oh, you have company, I'll see you later."

He brushes by without looking at her and she almost smacks him upside the head as he goes. Another lie, why does it surprise her?

She crosses her arms tightly, trying to hold in an outburst and preserve some dignity. "What was Anders doing here?"

"Blondie didn't tell you?"

Her eyes widen and she bites back laughter that would border on hysterical. "Tell me Varric, what was he talking about?"

He shrugs. "The usual, stories from his days as a Warden. The sort of things I've already told you before."

She sighs heavily and rubs her tired eyes with the heels of her hands, mouthing the word without sound, "Unbelievable."

He taps his hand on the table and gives her a warm smile. "Still trouble in paradise, I see. Sit down, let me buy you a drink and you can tell your favorite dwarf all about it."

Staring off into nothing she shakes her head. "I can't…this…I'm not ready to talk about it."

"Aw Hawke, you're breaking my heart."

Her mind flashes with the image of Fenris, alone, without her, she had just left him there without explanation.

"How am I supposed to help you when you won't share the sordid details?"

_Sordid_ is right, she pinches the bridge of her nose to stave off a headache. "I'm sorry, I think I need to be alone right now."

"I'm here if you need me, Hawke." She hears him call on her way out.

The image of Fenris drained the anger she had for Anders's deceit, and she let her somber steps carry her all the way to her bed and crashed into it. She was exhausted in every possible way and though her head whirled with recent events, sleep came easy.


	3. Alone

His hands are shaking uncontrollably as he darkens the lantern, locks the clinic doors, and shuts himself inside.

A healer's hands are supposed to be sure and steady. They were once, as was he, sure without question that he had found love, making him steadfast against all the reasons his head used to argue his heart with, as he grabbed onto it for dear life.

But like all things he had ever tried to hold onto, there was a price, there was a catch, loving her and living freely with her added a layer of guilt onto him that spread like an infection over time, eventually invading every moment of happiness and prying loose his fingers.

The spirit within him intensified his guilt, always pushing, always reminding him at every new discovery of joy he found within love that others would never have a chance to feel this way if he let himself become complacent, and it tore him apart to watch conditions worsen for the mages while he lived in the lap of luxury. They too deserved love-_until the day we die_-and a home-_warm apple pie and lazy days in bed_-not Templars and fear and prison cells.

In some ways, falling in love made everything crystal clear, before, he was fighting for the cause under a pretense of ideals, but now, knowing how everything mages were forced to give up actually _felt_ lent him more power than any agreement with a spirit ever could.

He laughs bitterly into the emptiness of the room and sits down on a cot near the back of his old haunt. It was the story of his life really, always trading one thing for another to get by, except now the stakes were higher than they have ever been and he only had one thing left to trade. He doesn't light a fire, and finds a small amount of solace in the dark as the same old thoughts play in an endless loop in his head. Already he knows he would not sleep tonight, as he had not slept the many nights over the past few months he's forced himself to stay away from her. Creating distance was for the best considering both their sakes, and the sake of many others, he wasn't sure if he could go through with his plan if he kept waking up next to her.

Being alone gives him an all too familiar sense of normalcy that he did not wish to have and took no comfort in. He scrubs his palms against his jaw, then clutches the tattered quilt laying beside him in an effort to tamp down on the emotions rising within. Most nights he pretended he did not have a home to return to and it seemed to make things easier on him, but tonight would be the worst night he had ever spent in longing for it, for her. And it was all because of the way he had hurt her today, so many times he wanted to ease her suffering at his hands and each time the thought that she might pay for his crime held him back.

Using her as a means to an end was only one of many regrets; he had exhausted all other options for a way to distract the Grand Cleric and as sure as he was of her hate for him for it, he hated himself more.

He felt sick and threw up for not the first time today. Wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his coat, he went back to sitting with his hands clasped tightly together in front of him and began to cry, loudly and unreservedly, unlike he had in the tub this morning for fear she would hear him. What hurt the most is what she probably thought, he knew what he planned to do would raise her ire and he had wanted to make love to her one last time before destroying everything.

Foolish, foolish, foolish!

It had only opened and poured salt into a wound that he had hoped would have closed over by now. It was a mistake, a weakness on his part from missing her so terribly, and as he touched her he knew it was wrong to give her hope that what they had could be repaired. He is a ghost, dead inside as he prepares to die and as he kissed her he wondered if he already tasted of ashes.

He cries for hours, twisted and broken and alone in a way he has never felt before, and finally calms in the way he always does, with Justice's influence of thoughts about the big picture, making what he wants feel small and insignificant in the grand scheme.

One short tainted life of blissful ignorance paled in comparison with the freedom of so many, all he had to do now was wait for the right moment to make the trade.

* * *

When she wakes her first thought is Fenris.

Everything comes rushing back like a slap to the face and she sobs into her hands.

Her gasps pull the chill of night deep into her lungs, and she feels as though it's the first time she has been able to take a true breath since the start of this mess. It calms her somewhat, and she stares blankly into the darkness, remembering a time not too long ago when Anders would come home late from the clinic, and the comforting signature of his magic would fill the room as he stoked the fire before crawling into bed beside her.

Finding herself to be alone in a cold room with no fire in the hearth is unsurprising, and as she searches her memory, trying to pinpoint exactly when it first became unsurprising to her, she realizes that this is the first time she has ever felt relieved by his absence, and after so many years together, it is a strange mixture of both liberation and emptiness.

She tries to envision living without him, tries to hold a clear and crisp portrait in her mind's eye of what her life would actually be like, and it eludes her. She wonders how it would truly feel, because she was, essentially, already living without him and the difference would be no longer paying loyalty to a ghost.

The thought still makes her cry, her tears now slipping silently down her face as she conjures flames to the logs with a flick of her wrist; that she had failed, that they had failed, their whole relationship had failed.

There had always been warning signs, a doubt that told her she would never be the most important thing in his life, but she had ignored it in the beginning. Looking back now, she could see that he had fairly warned her-_I'll hurt you_-and now she wondered what he really meant by that so long ago. Did he see? Did he know then that he couldn't give her what she wanted? Yes, and she had been too willful, too ready to jump in and get her own heart broken.

He had captivated her from the start, such a strong, opinionated man who stood for what he believed in, no matter the cost to himself, but she learned too late that she was part of the price, and that was just it, she couldn't deal with not being at the center of her significant other's life. She could blame him for so many things, but never this, it was her own fault for not confronting herself honestly about the way it made her feel, and letting it fester into resentment. And there she was facing the true crux of the problem, she felt guilty not only about her own selfishness, but when it came to the things she thought she could reasonably blame him for, she felt pressured into quickly forgiving him, because Justice was demanding and she saw the toll it took on him.

Still, she had opened herself up to him completely, and tried to be content about being near the center for a little while, helping at the clinic, asking to join the underground, his fight was her fight too, but as he became more secretive she became less understanding about why he held her at arm's length. Every attempt made to understand resulted in being pushed further away until she was at a loss. At first she thought he was probably trying to protect her, but he could have at least confided in her about some things, anything. So she was left to conclude that he didn't trust her, but had no qualms about using her trust for him.

Sela Petrae and Drakestone, she could've looked up their properties, still could've found another way after he had hidden his books and admitted he lied, but by then, she was tired of chasing him and begging for scraps, so she did one last trick and just rolled over.

She wondered what was so important about getting into the Chantry that he would use her, not that it was the first time he'd used her, but he put especial effort into achieving his goal. What's funny is that she would've done it, if only he had told her the reasons why when he first asked weeks ago. It was probably some agenda for the underground, but she decided she didn't care to know now.

In the end, what seemed to matter most is that she'd wasted so much time in a looping cycle of torture, which she had begun, despite all of his proclamations of impending disaster.

Now, she was torturing Fenris.

She got up and went downstairs to pour a glass of wine, and without shame, decided to just bring the whole damn bottle back with her. She had enough shame to shoulder for other things to let getting drunk alone be of any concern. It was an occasion, she told herself, an occasion of honesty. She tossed a pillow onto the rug by the hearth and lied back, taking a drink as often as each wave of shame made her cringe.

She didn't deserve Fenris.

Her warrior, always there, a constant in her life that made her feel safe, she never stopped to think that maybe one day he wouldn't be. She had guessed all along that he had feelings for her, but though she had idly entertained the thought over the years, had dreams about him that made her blush, she had been determined to remain loyal.

Well, that's gone to the Void in a hand-basket.

_Has he ever fucked you this good?_

Damn it, _stop_. Another drink.

Would she have caved if her relationship wasn't in tatters? There was no way to ever know. It probably seemed as though she had used Fenris to make herself feel better, which wasn't the case, but what would people say?

What would her friends say? It sure looked that way.

Another drink.

She cringed to think what Fenris himself probably thought.

Another drink.

Maybe he wasn't waiting, maybe he was already gone and it would serve her right, stupid Kinsley running around torturing people. If he was still there, she couldn't go to him now even with apologies and half-thought out ramblings to explain her behavior.

Why hadn't she stopped Anders, stopped herself from sleeping with him again? Another drink. What would she say to Fenris about that? Keep it hidden from him? That's great, she could lie to and use him like Anders lies to and uses her.

How had she let everything get so screwed up?

None of Anders's actions could justify her own.

What she had done was wrong, but since she was being honest, part of her didn't give a damn, and it was this part that made her feel the worst, because running to Fenris while she was mad at Anders wasn't fair to anyone.

She had cheated all right. She had cheated herself out of a fresh start with Fenris, and any kind of dignified ending to her current relationship.

Dawn is creeping in through the windows and she is pathetically drunk. She crawls into bed and covers her head with the blankets like crawling into a dark hole somewhere to hide. She could just stay there forever, avoid everyone until they forget about her, until _he_ did…she doesn't deserve him.

* * *

Something—someone—jumps onto her bed and straddles her back.

"Rise and shine, beautiful!"

Isabela.

So much for people forgetting about her.

Trying to block out all the energy and good cheer, Kinsley covers her throbbing head with a pillow, and it quickly gets ripped away. She reaches back blindly for it, and gets smacked on the arm.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"No, and I don't want to know either," she groans, and buries her face into her only remaining pillow while trying to buck her off, but Isabela is too quick for that and bounces into the bed beside her.

"Uh uh. Come now, pet. It's game night."

Night? Dear Maker, she was a full-fledged night owl now and a pathetic one to boot. She couldn't go to the Hanged Man and pretend everything was fine. What if she saw him? Or worse, _them_? That would be ten kinds of awkward and she shudders to think of it.

She turns her head to the side to breathe, and musters a firm tone. "I'm not going anywhere."

Isabela tsks at her and tucks her haphazard bed-headed tresses back from her face. "I knew you were under there somewhere. This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain feathered apostate we both know and love would it?"

"No."

"Liar. Varric already told me."

"There's nothing to tell."

"My guess is he won't be there. Did you know that there's been people lined up at the clinic all day? We thought maybe you two had _reconciled_, but-"

"I can't worry about where he is or what he's doing anymore. He's a big boy, he can take care of himself. And it doesn't matter, I'm still not going."

"Well, aren't you a big ray of sunshine."

She huffs, and Isabela waves a hand in front of her nose.

"Whew, it smells like someone's already been partying."

"Sure, if that's what you want to call it. I'm partied out."

"Aw, come on, I need my partner in crime and everyone else is already there. Well, except Fenris, he's also missing."

She raises her head at that, and tries not to sound distraught with her heart thumping harder than the pounding in her head. "What?"

Isabela shrugs. "Donnic said he wasn't there when he stopped by. Who knows? Wait, I know."

"Huh?"

She winked. "Don't you find it suspicious that they've both disappeared at the same time? All of the bitching and all of those smoldering glares. I bet they're holed up somewhere, releasing all that tension-

"Not this again." She sighs and sinks her face back down into the pillow with an ache in her chest, and tries to pull the covers back over her head but they get yanked away.

Stubborn Bela.

"I'll make you a deal-"

"Ooh, I like deals."

Isabela cozies in conspiratorially, and Kinsley pouts, feeling worse than ever about hiding things, especially from her best friend. She knew that Isabela more than likely wouldn't care, she and Fenris hadn't been seriously involved, and their fling had happened months ago, but confiding anything right now would mean explanations, details, and rehashing things she'd already went over in her mind last night.

"Leave me here to wallow in my own self-loathing, and I'll give you that red dress you love to borrow so much."

"Hmm, I don't know…"

Kinsley realizes that she must look like the very definition of depression, comically so, a living, breathing caricature. Whatever that would look like, she's sure it's her, someone could paint a portrait.

She was going to have to sweeten the pot.

"Boots too."

"On one condition, promise me right now that you're okay."

"I promise," she says, with the best of her ability to sound okay.

It will save her from having to tell more lies if she goes to the Hanged Man, at least this was innocent and didn't hurt anyone.

Isabela jumps up and throws her hands onto her hips. "And just what am I to tell everyone?"

"Make something up, I don't care."

"Oh, the possibilities! If you get strange looks tomorrow, don't blame me."

"Hmmph."

Strange looks will be had whenever the truth inevitably comes out, but for now, the battle is won to remain hiding away from the world and all its consequences.

"As close to a laugh as I'm going to get, I feel special. Love you doll."

"Love you," Kinsley mumbles, and the covers go back over her head.

She tries to go back to sleep, and when she hears the door close downstairs she realizes that she can't lie here forever, not now, with her heart thumping madly in light of this new information.

What if he really, truly is gone? She reminds herself that it serves her right and she doesn't deserve him.

Nevertheless, she needed to take something for her headache, and as soon as she gets up and walks out into the hall, she hears Bodahn calling for her.

She looks out the window on her way over to the balcony, and yes, it is definitely dark. Check, some actual sense of time, and check, confirmation of her pathetic state.

"There's a letter for you, the fellow said it was urgent. I apologize, but we couldn't wake you."

A letter? A goodbye letter from Fenris, she imagines he's used all of those nights of studying together well, enough to say: Dear whore, I got tired of waiting around for you.

"When was this?"

She holds onto the railing on her way down the steps, embarrassing and lazy are a few words that come to mind, and she avoids the dwarf's gaze.

"Ah, uh, very early, about a quarter after sunrise."

She clears her throat, no wonder they couldn't wake her.

"Oh, thank you Bodahn."

With trembling hands she picks up the letter, but it has a seal she recognizes, not Fenris.

* * *

Champion Hawke,

It took great courage the other day for you to speak openly against our knight-commander. You have my support in any actions you take. I hope I have yours as well, for there is a situation in the Circle I was hoping you could assist me with. Please meet me at the Gallows. Meredith has confined my mages to their cells and forbade me from traveling further than the Courtyard. I appreciate your service and discretion.

Sincerely,

First Enchanter Orsino

* * *

What now? They're worse than a married couple. Whatever. There is nothing to be done about it tonight, and she tosses it back onto the desk without another thought.

She grabs some herbs and goes up to the washroom for a bath, soaks for a while in the tub, and reaheats the water while letting the herbs work their own magic on her hangover. Then she is back in her bedroom with no idea of what to do next; refreshed with her headache gone, full of energy from sleeping all day, and facing another long night ahead of her, alone, again. Which is what she wanted, congratulations, you're alone. What she really wanted was to not have had made so many mistakes.

She gets back into bed and tries to picture going to the Hanged Man and being with her friends under different circumstances, in a different life where she had chosen Fenris years ago and it was perfectly acceptable and normal to everyone for them to cuddle up in Varric's room around a game of cards. Hours pass and she imagines other scenarios in this fantasy world until she hears everyone turning in for bed.

She replays the scene from the other night, except she doesn't leave, she stays.

The oddly shaped bright spot of moonlight on the carpet becomes the color of his phasing abilities. All of those stolen glances on the battlefield, watching his muscles flex as he wielded that ridiculously oversized sword, she had wondered at the strength it required, and now she knew, he had lifted her like some weightless thing onto that table.

She chews on her fingertips, there are other things at stake and focusing on this is deplorable. To touch herself would cross a new line, a reprehensible action that wouldn't compare anyway and still leave her feeling unsatisfied.

She grips the covers so her hands don't feel empty and she aches for him, a tense, roiling sensation in her gut that actually, physically hurts. She turns over, and the swirling lines on the closet become the pattern of lyrium lines on skin she has been hiding the memory of touching.

It floods through her now, and she drowns in the taste of him-_raw passion and pavali_-and how he kisses just right, his scent surrounding her-_sharp and crisp and musky_-dizzying her, his strong fingers gripping her hips and the feel of him inside her and the sound of his moans and his lips on her neck…

Emerald eyes, wanting, taking.

_Do you come this hard with him?_

She flops onto her back and stares up at the canopy, whether her eyes are open or closed she can't stop seeing him, feeling him, and she can't stop hearing his voice in her head. She curls in on herself at the thought of it being too late, that she won't ever hear it again, or know his touch in other ways.

But what hurts most of all is never knowing what could have been.

_To be happy._

_I want you to be happy Fenris. If not here then…_

_Elsewhere?_

The regret stings, if she had handled everything differently, she could be with him right now, in his bed, in his arms, but instead he was out there somewhere…

A sobering moment of panic has her throwing the covers back and rushing to get dressed.

When she steps outside it would appear much the same as all the other nights she has went creeping up to his place. Except the gnawing flickers of excitement are more like pins and needles stabbing at her limbs and screaming-What are you doing?-I don't know, she answers herself aloud.

The air is unseasonably warm, and feels wild against her skin, as strange and liberating as letting her heart lead her legs.

There was once a time when her heart would've led her to other places, aching and wandering down and through musty corridors that still held the remnants of a dying legacy, all the way to a lit lantern and a double set of doors, but no one lived there anymore.

She still has no right to say words of commitment, she hasn't had her conversation with Anders yet, and is still technically, spoken for. If Fenris is still there, she has to trust that she will know what to say when she gets there, and it's preposterous, her mouth fails her all the time, either saying too much of the wrong thing or too little of the right, whenever it counts.

Her stomach flip-flops when she sees his door. When she gets to it, she hesitates, her whole being sinking, and her hand strays from the knob and reaches up tentatively to the center instead. Her fingertips trace the worn rectangular grooves, and she curses herself with muttered breath as she presses her forehead against it.

Thunder booms overhead and she jumps, there was already a storm brewing inside herself, chaotic and magnetic, and all-consuming. Her hand curls around the knob, and she turns it, she opens it, and there is no turning back.

She goes cautiously, a broken-hearted ghost who intends to, dare she, beg him to stay.

She knows long before she gets near the room, there isn't a glow pouring out and casting the long, familiar shadows she expects to see, there is nothing here but the swish of her robe and her dead, echoing steps.

The moonlight reveals his empty chair, and she goes over to it, there is a sound, not footsteps, it is the storm breaking outside and pounding the roof with torrents of rain. Her own storm breaks as well, wracking her body with sobs, and her hands squeeze the back of his chair, harder so, as reality sets in.

He is…gone.

His scent still lingers in the air.

He is gone.

_I wonder how often he leaves you lonely._

She had left him lonely, until he couldn't be anymore.


	4. Restless

"The Volirah are poisonous."

Fenris's markings flared in response to the hand that grabbed him about the wrist, and he felt ashamed to see his reflection in the man's eyes. It was an image he knew well, one which held no physical characteristics, but was a mixture of blue light and fear.

He closed his eyes, and took a calming breath, willing the shock of sudden contact away. These people, these warriors, treated him with a kind of respect that was not born out of fear, it was a marvel to him, and he did not wish to see them become overly cautious around him.

"Forgive me."

"The fault was my own, Fenri."

The man's accent, like many others here, did not allow him to speak his name properly, and Fenris thought it a welcome change to his ears, rather than the harsh or falsely affectionate hiss he was accustomed to.

He opened his eyes to look upon the flowers again, bright and vivid and unspoiled, and regretted the impulse to mar them with his touch. Everything here seemed to have a splendor the likes of which he had no memory to compare. There were many splendid things in Tevinter, but they were lavish and decadent and grew from the hearts and minds of those whom possessed with greed. It blackened every color, it soured every taste, and it coated every beautiful thing with a sickening film of hopelessness, which he never felt resigned to, it was just there always, as an unrecognizable weight in the pit of his stomach.

"Why do you wish to have them?"

"I…" He looked at the man, Tojun, and a blush formed on Fenris's cheeks then as he began to recall what his people practiced and taught, they took from the land only what they needed to survive.

"Do not be embarrassed," Tojun said, and went to place a hand on Fenris's shoulder, causing him to flinch away.

Worse still to leave him in awe were their gestures of affection, they seemed to do it without thought. Every touch he'd ever experienced had been _with_ thought, indeed with cruel intent or selfish pleasure. At first the idea of a touch lacking motive seemed absurd, but the more he watched them interact he realized that there was motive, and it derived from comfort and camaraderie, all things outside of his knowledge. Fenris wondered if he would ever become used to these gestures being freely given to him. What made him worthy?

Tojun did not apologize again, nor did he ignore Fenris's reaction, he simply let his hand slowly drop away with a pained expression on his face.

"You must understand Fenri, you already have the Volirah."

"I am not sure what you mean."

"Everything we experience becomes a part of us, for good or ill. The thought that made you reach had a purpose, and that purpose may still be shared without owning in a physical sense."

Fenris went quiet and let the strange wisdom sink in. He continued to help fill buckets from the river, and he let the cool rush of water wash over his hands, watching as they were cleansed, and thought about how everything he once was had been cleansed from him. As though Danarius had taken one look at all he was and decided that it was dirt to be wiped clean from an otherwise useful prize. If everything he has experienced since being robbed of his memory was a part of him, then he was but what Danarius had made him to be.

Except for this, all of this, right here, right now.

He looked at his surroundings with a new, sharp clarity; at his companion, at the sunlight beaming down on the heavy hanging bows of the jungle trees, at the huts across the way, one of which was _his, _and at the Volirah once more. He committed all the sights and sounds to memory, and took a deep breath just to capture the scents as well. He was...free. He could become whomever _he_ made _himself_ to be, could forge an identity with every new memory from this day forward. It was the first time he'd truly opened himself to the thought of freedom, and it was enormous and terrifying with infinite possibilities, and yet, exhilarating. The weight in his gut became recognizable as it lifted, as hope stirred within him.

Someone approached from behind him, the rustle of robes filled him with dread, so soft, so quiet, so purposeful, just like the many nights he had lain awake and heard them approaching to collect him out of his bleak quarters, to violate him in the most obscene way.

His blood ran cold, and a shadow was cast upon his soul as much as his body, all dark, forever dark with the tap of a staff against the ground.

"Kill them, my pet. Kill them all."

It was not Danarius's reflection in the water, it was Hawke's.

* * *

He wakes, shaking, and rises to sit on the edge of the bed. "She is not..." he whispers, and sighs softly.

The name is so, so tiresome now, and the breath it takes to say it is better wasted into the dark of the room.

It has been a while since he's dreamt of that fateful day, when he had made the choice to become someone other than the monster Danarius had created. Choices used to be simpler. Every big decision he's ever made had felt right, to fight for his family's freedom, to run, to end the lives of his tormentors.

But to leave Kirkwall feels both right and wrong, as does staying; there is no clear path set before him, no gut feeling to sway him, and no overwhelming need for revenge to dictate his actions.

There is only her.

With his memories returned, it sometimes feels as though he is several people, Leto, and the Wolf, and who he became after meeting her. He is constantly trying to fit the pieces together to make a whole, and now his sanity is starting to crack a little, as he has another new part of himself to contend with, the part that knows how it feels to be, not near her, but with her.

This part howls, and claws at his insides with the want of her, it wishes for the courage to rip his own heart out, just to be rid of this restless, searing ache that has burrowed its way into his very being. She has filled him, completely, madly, as if there had never been anything else within him to begin with, and she lives within him as surely as she draws her own breath, for all of his are spent in thought of her.

To be so consumed with another person frightens him more than he wants to admit. It is too similar to the kind of blind devotion he'd known as a slave, and he clings to the differences to assure himself that _this_ devotion, this new poison in his veins, comes from something pure. It is consuming, she is consuming, not because he is submitting to her, but because he is submitting to himself and what he wants.

This want is twice as cruel as the hatred, anger, and need for vengeance he's burned with for all of these years, it swells and rages and scorches, and he doubts it will ever turn to ash.

It is too late, far, far too late.

Kinsley Hawke will be the death of him.

He had seen them there, standing on the steps of the Chantry in the morning light, and the sight had rooted him to the ground, unable to look away as he watched him kiss her, unable to do more than clench his fists to point of pain. Every part of him had screamed then, that it was right to leave, that he could not stay and bear to see her continue a relationship with that poor excuse of a man. What little hope he had was dashed, and then returned, stronger than ever, when he watched her storm off. Hope was dangerous, it wrapped its incorporeal hands around his neck and squeezed, it constricted his chest, it tangled him up in the chains of this city and threw down a heavy anchor. He spent the first night waiting in agony, listening for the barest sound, and reaching out with a silent call from his heart to hers, but she never came.

His only visitor in two days had been Donnic, and he had hid from him in the east wing of the mansion. He hadn't wished to speak with anyone, or lie to anyone, and although attending game night might have given him the answer he so desperately needs, he knew he wouldn't have behaved rationally if it had came in the form of seeing them together, so he had somehow drank himself to sleep for a few hours.

Now what he knows is that he cannot remain here as he is, hiding in the dark for a second night, burying himself like some shameful secret, and waiting for her to come and dig him up. Maybe he is no better than the abomination in her eyes. Maybe he is a thing in which to seek the solace of flesh and nothing more, and he cannot be that for her.

Hope for the unattainable is too powerful, and if it is indeed not within his grasp, if she did not feel as he did, then for his own sake he will tear himself away and make a clean break, because if he stays regardless, then he fears he will not be able to resist her even if the truth of how she feels turns out to be degrading to him.

The thought sickens him in more ways than one; in the way it makes him question how alike to Danarius she actually is, in the way it horrifies him to make such a correlation, and in the way he feels like a beast with no control over his desires around her.

He dresses and grabs his sword, and the Maker help whatever fool who dares to cross his path tonight. He steps outside and almost wishes for someone to jump out at him, just so he can have a short reprieve from her and pour all of his emotions into the deadly calm that is his focus in battle. But Hightown is quiet tonight, and warm, and he senses the rain coming from a mile away, even though the clouds had not yet gathered.

He is not one to break promises, as much to himself as anyone, and he struggles with his failure of waiting for her to come to him. He tries to believe in the inconceivable, that given enough time in a life without her his passion would surely die, but his faith of it ever being possible drains right out of him as her house comes into view.

When he draws near he skulks into the shadows and slips around to the side of the house instead, stopping there to lean his back against the wall. He curses his cowardice aloud in a litany of whispers, and internally berates himself for both his delay of, and eagerness for, the answer he needs.

That he is standing here in the dead of night, arguing with himself, is solid proof that he's gone off the deep end, but he doesn't want to return to his silent tomb of a home, where the hours slowly bleed to death.

He looks up at the windows, at the moonlight glinting off the glass, and wonders if she is alone or lying next to him. The thought of her with him makes his blood boil, the thought of her alone makes his insides twist and turn, and not knowing which, reminds him of how he is always, and only, so near, so achingly near.

Two whole days, and what was she doing? Was part of her a monster that didn't care about the destruction she left in her wake?

_I need to go... _

The panic in her voice.

Did she want to stay with him, or was she afraid to leave him?

_I'm sorry. _

The regret in her eyes.

Was her small, gentle hand stroking his cheek a gesture of true affection, or was it trickery, meant to string him along?

In frustration he punches the wall, the sound a skittering echo through the streets, like chains rattling.

He is running hot, and confronting her like this does not seem safe or wise, for either of them. The doubt over her intentions towards him hits a sore spot that is better left alone, maybe it is all better left alone. He should leave, however, memory is both precious and torturous, he'd figured that out long ago and was no stranger to regret, but she has made him come to redefine it in a whole new way, and he knows that he would break under the strain of trying to carry her memory out of this city without saying goodbye.

He leans forward with his hands against the wall, and hangs his head, his breath and the beating of his heart are two opposing rhythms, one trying to calm the other.

How long he stood there, he could not say. The eyes of any creature at this hour would pass him over, his form indistinguishable from that of a statue, belying the violence inside.

A sound brings his body to life, a soft click that triggers his reflexes, and he looks up to peer out of the shadows; his eyes fall to her, his lonely soul descends upon her, and the beast within follows her every movement as a predator does prey.

She is a beacon, and he is instantaneously, undeniably, _recklessly_ drawn.

He stalks her at a distance across the courtyard, his pursuit dogged and careful, never letting her out of his sight, and he dead stops when she begins to climb the steps to the mansion district.

_It doesn't have to be. _

The Maker help him. But the only answer that looking skyward gives is a rolling crack of thunder.

* * *

She runs out of the mansion and slams the door behind her.

The rain is a stinging shock of cold to her body and is pouring hard enough to drench her immediately. She stops to welcome the way it weighs down her robes, plasters her hair, and numbs her skin, but it won't seep in any deeper and cleanse her regret. He took a part of her with him that she hadn't even let him know was there. She is just a fool standing in the rain, and it doesn't matter, nothing does, she is too late, she always is.

All around her the droplets splash back up from the street, and she stares at the ground in a state of disbelief that hasn't fully settled in yet. Each step of one foot in front of the other is the playing of an old tune. Time, as she knows, heals all wounds. It softens blows, and allows the dead to quietly house themselves in the living.

After every loss, the days keep coming, but that tomorrow should dawn without him in her life is a kind of loss she isn't prepared to feel, it isn't the same as laying grief to rest, and it isn't like letting go of a relationship that no longer works; it is being restless with the knowledge that possibility still exists and yet remaining in an area of permanent gray, it is searching endlessly for that one face in the crowd, it is having words that go unspoken because they don't mean anything until the one they are meant for hears them.

She hits something hard, hands grab her shoulders and she sucks in a panicked breath, steadied from slipping, she looks up into green eyes and every nerve ending she has lights up.

"Fenris," she says, his name an exhalation. "I thought…"

His grip on her tightens, and before she can register the pain of it he shoves to the side and her back hits the wall.

He hates her, no, her bewilderment fades when she sees a bolt of magic break against the chest of his armor and knock him to the ground.

The rain makes it hard to see, but she spots their attacker almost blindly by feeling the presence of blood magic in the air. She is off of the wall and hurling a stone fist faster than the bloodmage can summon his next spell, and it sends him flying back against Fenris's door.

There is movement to her right, a flash of silver that catches her off guard, and she has only a second to realize it was Fenris's blade meeting another and stopping what would have been a death blow to her before she is brought low by a smite.

She hears the clashing of swords in her haze, feels the draw of energy made by another Templar preparing the next smite, and wonders if they've mistaken her for being in cohorts with the bloodmage. She's too strong for one smite to do her in and recovers quickly, but half her mana is gone and she doesn't have her staff with her to focus and conserve her power.

They are surrounded, three Templars and a bloodmage makes for a dangerous combination, one man falls at her feet, bleeding out from a lethal slash across his throat, and she casts horror on the mage to keep his dark spells at bay. It costs her another smite, before Fenris cuts down his second opponent and charges forward to engage the offending Templar in battle.

She recovers more slowly this time, and knows that every spell she chooses will tax her dwindling reserves.

"Hawke!"

Everything inside her screams with alarm at the sound of distress in Fenris's voice, and she regains her footing in time to see him drop to his knees, his sword slips from his hand and clatters against the ground as a red mist envelops him. The Templar's blade is swinging down to strike him, and she isn't close enough for a mind blast, a telekinetic burst will take more than she has, so she forces her reflexes to react with a winter's grasp instead. It freezes the Templar whole and stops his sword midair.

With her heart practically in her throat, she swiftly turns and uses the last of her power to cast lightning at the bloodmage, but he throws up a shield.

She panics and grabs one of the fallen Templar's swords off of the ground, and she can barely handle the weight of it. Time seems to slow as she realizes that any action is riddled with failure, as the distance between her and Fenris and the bloodmage is almost an equal triangle. The hemorrhage spell is killing him, and her frost spell is wearing off on the Templar.

"Use me!"

"No!"

"Do it!"

She doesn't know how, but she focuses on him and it is not hard to lock onto the essence of the lyrium, even beneath the whorls of dark magic. They both feel it when she succeeds, and it is like a light piercing through and pulling on him.

The bloodmage's shield drops and she takes the opportunity to cast a powerful chain of lightning that branches out and hits both targets at once. The Templar shatters, and the energy jumps and channels full force at the bloodmage, crackling through the rain and killing him instantly as if the Maker himself had called down his fury.

She throws the sword aside and runs over to drop down in front of Fenris as he slumps forward onto his hands.

"Are you all right?"

"I could be better."

"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"If you hadn't, we would be dead."

He pushes himself up to sit back on his heels and looks at anything but her as he continues to take deep breaths, and she is too busy checking him over for injuries to notice.

"I didn't even know what I was doing. Did I hurt you?"

"I'm fine."

She wonders what kind of effect using his markings has on him. It's not something he's ever explained to her and she's worried about herself almost as much as him because she feels a little loopy and disoriented. The power she drew from him was unlike anything she's ever felt, and it is still buzzing in her bones.

"Have we gone completely insane, or did we really just fight a bloodmage with Templar pals?"

"Either one does not bode well," he says, and finally looks at her with a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

She smirks back at his comment, despite having heard more of an edge in his voice than usual, and then shrugs. "Maybe they were thralled?"

"No. I have seen too many under the thrall of blood magic to know the difference. These men were fighting of their own accord."

"To state the obvious, that doesn't make any sense."

"Agreed. To further state the obvious, they would not ally without some nefarious cause."

"A new faction?" She rolls her eyes. "That's great, as if we don't have enough of those."

He picks up his sword and sheathes it, then stands and offers her his hand. Even before her skin touches his, there is a palpable energy surrounding his hand that she feels like she has to push through, and once she pushes past, it becomes magnetic, drawing her hand to his the rest of the way almost involuntarily. When they clasp together a wave of warmth rushes up her arm and continues to travel throughout her body, spreading down her spine and tingling along the way.

She looks from their hands up to him and he averts his eyes and lets go. The loss of contact rips the sensation right out of her, and she returns to feeling normal, and very cold, so fast that her head spins and her teeth chatter.

This new, curious sensation aside, her emotions flare and the tension returns as it becomes obvious between them that the fight had been a distraction, but as she has no idea of where to begin, she says nothing when he walks over and kneels to start searching one of the Templar's bodies. She goes over to check the bloodmage, and tries to think of what to say to him, or more accurately, how to say what needs to be said. She peeks back at him over her shoulder and catches him watching her, but the rain is still coming down hard and she cannot read any kind of an expression on his face.

_I want you to stay_, and _please don't leave, don't ever leave me,_ and _I've fallen in love with you_ would be easier to say had she not took so long to figure it all out, if she hadn't…done what she did. Her stomach is in knots, her mind is racing, and her hands are shaking from fear as much as the cold while she absently inspects pockets, but a new reality is settling in and giving her the smallest bit of courage. It is frail however, and now she isn't sure if she had assumed the worst before, maybe it would have been better for him to leave not knowing how she feels, rather than to leave because he is disgusted with her.

"Anything?"

"Nothing," she says, and looks up at him with tears in her eyes that are concealed by the rain. She stands and turns, and he is automatically too close. Rivulets of water run down his face and drip from his lips, and she swipes some of her hair out of her face when she realizes she is staring. "I received a letter from Orsino. It didn't say anything specific, but this can't be a coincidence."

"It does not comfort me to know they were practically on my doorstep."

"Try literally on your doorstep." She moves out of the way when he grabs the mage's ankles. "What's one more corpse anyway?"

"Perhaps I will write welcome on his forehead," he says, while dragging the body off and to the side.

"Yes, and then I can trip over him every time I…"

Her throat closes up with how hard she just shoved her foot in her mouth, and she feels uncomfortable under his gaze when he steps up closely to her again. He is staring at her intensely, and she is mesmerized, as frozen as a hare that has been cornered by a wolf.

"Why are you here, Hawke?"

Every emotion she has floods her system at once and he sways on his feet a little, her hands shoot out to grab his arms and his markings light up and send an overwhelming charge of heat through her. All she wants to do is let it burn her to a cinder, but he pulls his arms free and forces the light back under control.

"What _is_ that?"

"I…it has been a while since my markings were used in such a manner."

"Is it me? Am I doing it? Does it hurt you?"

"It doesn't hurt, it…it is a side effect and will pass." A shudder passes through him, and he closes his eyes for a moment. "I can feel what you're feeling."

Her mouth gapes open and her eyes widen in horror. She tries not to feel her shame and she can't _not_ feel it. Anders's empty touch is all she can think of, and even without this magic, what she has done is written all over her face.

"Did you grovel for his forgiveness?"

"I haven't told him yet," she says, and reaches for him. "It wasn't like that."

He backs away, and sneers at her. "Do not touch me."

"I'm sorry!"

"Go ahead, Hawke. Tell me what it was like."

"I didn't...It's not what you-

"Were you with him just now?"

"No! He was there when I got home and..."

"And now he's not so you come to me."

"It's not like that!"

"You keep tossing that phrase around."

"Listen to me! I needed time to think-

"How much thinking did you do while he…" He jerks his head down and to the side away from her. "I am a fool to think I could ever have you for myself, and yet, I have thought of little else."

"Please-

He grabs her shoulders and gives her a single, hard shake. "What is this to you?"

She stares up at him and says nothing, instead she reaches up and gently places her palm against the side of his face, her fingers trembling, her whole body trembling with the amount of raw power she lets pour from her, she strips herself bare, and lays every emotion naked.

"You...?"

"I regret running away from you. I was confused, but I'm not anymore and when I thought you had left-

He crushes his lips against hers, and the energy between them erupts, it feeds and grows, it expands and contracts, it flows and ebbs and drowns and breathes.

They are joined more than physically, they can feel it as sure as skin, they belong, and their hearts are the primal beating of drums as their kiss turns into a hungry and ferocious thing in their need.

They stumble blindly against each other toward the door in any way that won't cause them to separate. She wraps her hands around his neck and her sleeves tear, her skin scrapes painfully against his spiky pauldrons, but it would take divine intervention to make her let go. He wraps an arm around her waist, half-dragging her against him and half-picking her up as he fumbles with the doorknob. He opens the door and swings her inside in one swift movement, closes it and slams her back into it.

The roar of the rain is lessened and their breaths become loud, she hears his sword ring free, and the clatter it makes when he tosses it isn't a warning, it is a gong setting off the race to undress. She claws at the buckles of his armor as he tears his gauntlets off and throws them to the floor.

He runs his hands all over her body and she writhes and moans loudly.

"Did you imagine his hands were mine?"

There is a possessive fire in his eyes, such a deep need to have her, take her, claim her, and he wants to hear her confess to him, he wants to wring every emotion out of her and devour each one; it's sinful how much she doesn't care about anything but what he wants, it's frightening how little of a damn she gives if this makes her a whore, and it's sickening how hoarse with depravity her voice is.

"I did, I _wanted_ them to be, but they didn't compare."

His fingertips skate across her throat and up to sweep her hair aside, and she swallows and gasps at the tenderness as he kisses along her neck-_I've missed you_-and up to her ear.

"He does not touch you like I do."

"No, he doesn't."

His hands slide up her back and pull on her robes. It comes apart in a series of buttons snapping free, and he grabs the bunching fabric in the front and shoves it down until the whole of it falls to the floor. He cups her breast, and she whines and arches into him as he ravages her throat with lips, teeth, and tongue.

"Tell me whose cock you wanted."

She throws a leg up over his hip and he grinds against her.

"Yours! Fuck!" she whispers harshly, and whimpers as she tries to gain more friction. "I wanted yours."

She is still struggling to lift his armor off of him, and he pulls back to do it for her. As soon as his chest is bare her hands are on him, gripping and sliding and travelling down to tug on his leggings. He strips them off the rest of the way, and then she lunges at him, but he catches her wrists and guides her backwards with his body until she hits the door again.

He turns her around roughly and presses her hands flat against the door, covering them with his own.

His hot breath is ragged in her ear and it makes her shiver and squirm.

"How often have you thought about it?"

"I couldn't…" She nearly sobs because not touching him right now feels like a barren eternity. "I couldn't stop thinking about it."

"Was it a madness?" He slowly slides his hands down her arms, down her sides, and pauses to curl them around her hips. "Did you yearn for me?"

"So badly it hurt."

She presses her forehead against the door when his fingers slip under her panties, and she makes a desperate little noise as he pulls them down. He drags his hands firmly along her legs on the way back up, from ankles to hips, and wraps an arm around her waist.

"Why can't you stay away from me?"

"I'm in love with you."

"Is that what this...this _ache_ is?"

"Yes."

He spins her around to face him and places his hands on the door at either side of her shoulders.

A drop of water falls from his wet bangs and splashes onto her cheek as he leans in close, and she tilts her lips up to his, but he hovers a hairsbreadth away in a sweet, savoring hesitation that crackles and sizzles between them.

"Then I am yours."

"Please..." she whispers, and squeezes her eyes shut.

"Look at me, and tell me again."

She opens her eyes, and tears slip from them. "I'm in love with you."

He gently places his palm to her cheek, and then with his fingertips barely touching her, strokes her jawline from ear to chin and _finally_, reverently, kisses her.

She brings her hands up to clasp behind his neck and deepens the kiss. "More," she mumbles, with her lips not fully parting from his.

He grabs her thighs, lifts and pins her to the door, and she reaches down between their bodies, wraps her hand around the hard length of him and guides him to her entrance. Her breath hitches when he shoves inside, and though he starts out slow, his thrusts do not become hasty, but brutal in intensity. Each time he retracts he shifts her weight into his hands, and each time he pushes up to meet her he lets her hips drop and slam down onto him.

It's a vicious scramble for pleasure that causes the grooves of the door to dig into her skin, and she harnesses the pain, she shares it with him by dragging his lower lip in between her teeth, and eyes locked he accepts it and growls, a low rumble deep in his chest that she can feel the vibration of against her own.

He lifts her away from the door, balances her completely into his hands, and a guttural wail escapes her and falls to an open-mouthed whimper against his neck.

"Such sweet sounds, they have haunted me day and night," he says, and starts to roll her hips and grind her along his length.

She can do nothing more than pant and hold on, because it is all _too much; _the way he is hitting the perfect spot inside her, the pounding of the rain on the roof in equal measure with his heart, the scent and heat and taste of him, it is all..."Fenris!"

Her legs clamp down hard around his waist, and he rocks the tension out of her body, he sways with her as her cries dampen to pathetic gasps.

He slams her against the door again, and she laughs wickedly as he pulls her legs up higher onto him and grabs her ass. He forces her to slump down to the angle he wants and presses his mouth against her ear. "I want my name on your lips every time I make you come tonight," he says, his voice husky as he pounds into her, his pace relentless until he groans out his own release into the side of her neck.

He catches his breath, and holds still and deep as he presses his forehead against hers. "I can't bear the thought of ever being without you. Please tell me it's the same for you."

"It is." She kisses him softly. "Oh, Fenris, it is." She hugs him tightly, and can no longer tell if the warmth inside her is from their connection. "Do you still feel it?"

"Yes," he answers, and narrows his eyes at her as he sets her down reluctantly, "but not as strongly as even a moment ago."

She keeps her eyes locked onto his, and she can see the apprehension in them. "I'm not leaving," she says, and reaches up to cup his face.

"Then neither am I."

* * *

A/N:

Is really nervous, because I hope more than usual that this chapter comes across the way I intend it to. My interpretation of Fenris in this situation is that although he was abused, he eventually learned how to be comfortable in a casual arrangement through his friendship with Isabela, but he's never experienced this kind of love before, and the devotion that comes along with it scares him. He questions Kinsley's motives because he does not want to be used, and since his feelings for her are so intense, he worries that he won't be able to resist continuing a sexual relationship with her regardless of her feelings for him. Sooo...I hope I handled all of that delicately enough.

Also, sorry about the lateness to any readers who are sticking with this story, and I wanted to say that even barring RL I'm still an extremely slow writer in general, (I'm kind of learning/relearning as I go, since I haven't written in years) but I don't plan on abandoning anything. Thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed, faved, and followed!


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